


another one of your secrets

by Mercurians



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Smut, V is a creep, endgame spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9436739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurians/pseuds/Mercurians
Summary: Your name is Jihyun Kim, and this is the last photo album you ever want to look at.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired on a Twitter storm of Vsung headcanons between me and two friends: Rix (rixsig-writes on here) who does some of my very favorite MysMe fics, and Ana (peekabooitsmiko on Tumblr) who has drawn some incredible Vsung and other MysMe fanart that you should go look at!!
> 
> Anyway Rix is also writing a fic inspired by the same tweets, so I'm VERY excited to see the different directions we take. 
> 
> P.S. Working title for this fic was "Photograph by Nickelback starring V" and my friends will probably be sad if I don't tell you that.

You take down a photo album on the top shelf, third from the left. The one with the brown vinyl cover, falling apart a bit at the spine, but otherwise immaculate. You take it in your hands and believe for a moment that it still feels warm from the last time you held it, although that was days ago. Still, only days.

Your name is Jihyun Kim, and this is the last photo album you ever want to look at. Each day your vision gets slightly worse. You don’t notice the changes as they happen gradually. You just observe the landmarks, that one day the newspaper headline is a mystery, another day it takes more than a moment to recognize your neighbor’s face. One day you expect to wake up to total darkness, but in the meantime, you want these to be the images your eyes linger on.

In the living room, you take a seat on the recliner beside the window, where the afternoon sunlight will make your job much easier. You take only a moment’s pause, your hand tracing inscribed letters on the cover, a name and a set of dates. Just a moment for the sake of sentimentality, and then you begin.

 

 

The first photograph in the album is the oldest, and thus, it’s the one you can remember most vividly. It’s an image of Yoosung and Rika, a close shot with bright colors. Both of them are wearing wide, brilliant smiles. Even here, before Yoosung has dyed his hair, the family resemblance is strong. It’s something in the curve of their lips, the brightness in their eyes. Both of them have smiles like sunlight.

He had hated that you put this picture first.

“That’s the first page?” he had said indignantly. “ _That_ one?”

You stared at it, a bit stunned by his harsh tone. “Should I change it...?”

Yoosung walked away from the kitchen table, fixing his sight on a painting hanging from your wall. His arms were crossed. “Well no,” he said, his voice more uncertain. “Don’t change it on _my_ account. I just can’t believe you don’t see anything... awkward about that.”

“This is one of the first photographs I ever took of you,” you told him. There was no fight in your voice; as always, you were just saying what you meant. “I thought that you would like it.”

Yoosung shook his head. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Use the photo with Rika in it. The one you took when you two were engaged, and I was _sixteen_.”

“You don’t like it,” you said. “I’m going to change it.”

“Don’t.” He turned toward you, and although you couldn’t quite see his eyes, you could feel his harsh glare. “Don’t just change it because I said so. Either fight with me or leave it, V.”

So you left it.

 

 

Now, you turn the page to a series of smaller photographs. The images skip ahead in time here. You own a few photos taken between the previous one and Yoosung’s high school graduation, but almost none from after Rika’s disappearance. These pictures pick up again when your relationship shifts, toward the end of his Sophomore year of college.  

A photo of him looking up at the sky on his walk to school. A photo of him standing on your balcony in your robe, a mug of coffee in his hands. A photo of him studying in the yard outside of your apartment. It’s no coincidence that he’s alone in almost all of these pictures, that none of the other RFA members happen to be present for the act of you photographing Yoosung Kim. All of these are solo shots, aside from one.

This one image was taken before guests arrived at an RFA party, the first one after your poorly-defined relationship starts its course. Everyone is in it: Jumin, Jaehee, Hyun, Luciel, Yoosung, MC, and even yourself, having set the camera on a timer. After the photo was taken, you all relaxed, Luciel making some joke as everyone scattered toward their various duties.

Yoosung stayed behind. You looked toward him, and he seemed to be staring back at you. There were three paces of distance between the two of you, but he proceeded to say in full volume, “We should tell them.”

“I really don’t think that’s smart,” you said. “Eventually, of course, but we should wait. Figure out how to do it delicately.” When he didn’t answer, you continued. “Maybe a more private get-together.”

“But everyone’s all here together right _now_ ,” he said. There was a lightness in his tone, but you knew he was serious. “How often does this happen? I think the longer we put it off, the more it’ll seem like we were trying to hide it. It’ll seem so scandalous, right?”

It _was_ scandalous, and you were both well aware. His casual delivery was entirely forced.

“We’ll do it soon,” you said, “I promise. Today is busy as-is. We’re better off at a time when we have complete control over how we tell them.”

When he didn’t respond immediately, you turned and walked away. He was upset, you knew, but he could understand that this was for the best. A reveal like that before the party would only distract the hosts, and no one wanted this party to go poorly, least of all Yoosung. So you walked toward the auction area, prepared to review your photos one last time. 

“V!” Yoosung called out loud enough that his voice must’ve reached every corner of the room. You turned slightly to watch him race toward you. When he stopped at your feet, Yoosung put a hand on your upper arm, turned you around, and got up on his toes to give you a quick kiss on the lips. Even without looking up, you knew everyone was watching. “I left something in your car,” he said, again a bit too loudly. “I’ll be right back.”

He held still for just a moment after those last words. You didn’t need a clear read on his expression to know what it said. Wordlessly, Yoosung Kim was telling you this: _I refuse to be another one of your secrets._

He darted for the door, leaving you alone in the middle of the room.

The aftermath was understated. Most everyone fell silent, the quiet in the cavernous event hall broken only by Yoosung’s echoing footsteps. When you glanced over, you saw that Jaehee and Luciel had already turned away and were walking in separate directions, probably too embarrassed to show that they’d seen. MC lingered for a moment before following after Jaehee. Jumin stood still, facing you.

Only Hyun spoke. “Did that really just happen?”

And as soon as he said it, Luciel grabbed him and was pulling him toward the stage area. Hyun stumbled slightly, then dragged behind him. “H-hey...!” But he didn’t say anything else that you could hear. You sighed, closing your eyes and thanking Luciel in your mind.

Jumin finally approached. “You and Yoosung are...?”

“Together,” you finished plainly. Jumin stood in front of you, and for once, you were grateful for the excuse not to make eye contact. Instead, you gazed over his shoulder toward the main doors of the event hall. You continued. “It’s recent. I... hadn’t planned on you finding out today, but I promise that we were going to tell you soon.”

Jumin was still, his voice even as ever. “V, I’m sure you can imagine that this comes as a shock.”

“I know.” You smiled lightly, tried to play it off a bit too casually. “Trust me, I was just as surprised as you.”

He hesitated for only a moment. “I don’t mean to question your instincts, but you told me before that after Rika, you would-”

“I know,” you cut in. “I know what I said.” You sighed. “It’s... not that I planned any of this. But anyway, maybe it’s time to let myself move forward, in some ways.”

Jumin said nothing.

“Listen....” You closed your eyes, focusing on keeping your voice steady. “I don’t need you to give us your blessing, or anything like that. Just please give me your trust. Know that I’m being cautious, and that I’ve thought this over enough.”

Jumin answered you dryly. “It wouldn’t be my place to intrude on your relationship.” (You thought you caught a hint of indignance in that last word.) “But regardless, V, of course you have my trust.”

When he walked away, you were left with a heavy feeling of guilt. You knew, in some sense, that you were taking advantage of him. Jumin Han was by no means unintelligent, but he was the type who would never voice a concern until he knew how to articulate it. And this situation was of a variety that Jumin Han could never articulate.

From that day forward, everything shifted, but only slightly. No one, not even Hyun , would voice their discomfort directly to you, though you suspected that more than one hushed conversation was held in your absence. The other members showed their concern indirectly. Everyone paid a little more attention to Yoosung after that. More questions, more gestures of good faith and empathy. More doors opened “in case he ever wanted to talk.” And at the same time, everyone grew just a little bit colder toward you.

 

 

You turn the page.

Almost every photograph in this book is a professional-quality shot. Even the candids, even the photos taken in casual, friendly moments, show evidence of your deft hand and expensive equipment. Now you flip this page over and have a clear spread of the sloppiest, most visceral photos in the album. You flip through, viewing spread after spread of them. Each photo is dimly-light, with a distinct orange glow. Some are unfocused. Some display their subject blurred at his edges. Some are awkwardly cropped, or difficult to make out. This only heightens their impact.

You are looking at Yoosung Kim’s naked back, his chest, his arms, his face with its expressions so intense that even with your poor eyesight, you can see the desperation and bliss each photo conveys.

At least in bed, you always gave him what he wanted. This is how it all started, after all. You’re still not sure what he saw in you, what sort of lust had him begging and grabbing at your clothes that night when suddenly you had him pinned against his couch, your tongue pushing past his lips. But he pulled you in tighter, kissed you deeper, not an ounce of hesitation in his actions.

You remember, of course, what you saw in _him_. Beneath his prickly exterior, a boy so gentle and loving that it always made your heart ache just to see him sad. A quick wit and an even quicker smile. A halo of blonde hair, soft arms, softer lips. You had always loved Yoosung, in one way or another. You’d watched him closely for years. The feelings weren’t always romantic or sexual in nature, but he had blossomed and you were lonely and suddenly everything here felt so _right_.

And so with sex, you always gave him what he wanted. If nothing else, you could take him into your bedroom, pin his wrists above his head and hear his breath catch in his throat from that alone. Each time, his hips would be desperately thrusting upward, searching the air for contact before you’d even begun to disrobe. Always impatient. Was it wrong to feel relieved that you could give this to him? Perhaps someone else would’ve been better suited, but he wanted _you_ , and you refused to disappoint him.

So you took your hands off of his wrists to push the shirt up his chest, smooth the palms of your hands against his nipples and drag them slowly in circles. He’d close his eyes, brows scrunching together, a look of concentration crossing his face. He wasn’t ready to look at you yet, not ready to move, so you let him feel, instead. Sitting up, you planted your knees on either side of his hips and grinded against his crotch, bouncing slowly and letting your thrusting body weight push him rhythmically up and down the mattress.

You would watch him like this, his eyes screwed shut, his entire body bouncing as he laid nearly immobile. His long fingers would be tugging at bedsheets, his legs gradually working their way up your lower back, but otherwise he would lie still and let you do all the work. Your motions would have his voice breaking into uneven pants. The friction of your jeans was uncomfortable, but Yoosung never seemed to care, so you kept going and watching his cheeks turn deeper red and his eyes fill with unshed tears until the need on your end was too much to handle.

When you finally undressed him, he would have flipped the switch. From immobile and passive to active and desperate. He ripped the cardigan down your arms, lifted your t-shirt and tugged hard until you lifted your arms up, letting it slide off of your torso. You’d be cold and exposed, and the way he’d stop to stare at your bare chest made you feel like you were being graded. But he’d move on quickly. After unzipping your jeans, he put his hands down the front of your pants and gave your cock a few errant tugs as though to rev you up for what was to come.

Your experiences here never altered your image of him. Yoosung Kim was an innocent boy, a gentle boy. It was you, Jihyun Kim, who brought this depravity into your bed. It was you who awakened this intense, needy part of him, and it was you who understood it as something impure.

Your clothes would be on the floor, and then his, and then he’d search your nightstand for a bottle of lube before tossing it to you with a plea of “hurry, hurry.” You lubed up a few fingers and put the first one in cautiously, feeling him squirm below your touch. The second went in slowly, and you watched for any signs of discomfort in his expression as you began to spread him out. “God,” he whispered. “V, _please_.” But you waited until he was good and ready for more, as though he may break under the pressure.

He begged for your cock immediately (“I need it, I need it, fuck”), but you always took it upon yourself to decide when he was thoroughly prepped. When finally you removed your fingers and slid into him, you watched the blurred shapes of his face contort into intense expressions, heard his voice strain as though choking on want.

“Is this okay?” you asked gently, feeling him pressed around the entire length of your erection.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was small and delicate. “Yes, yes, move _please_ , oh God.”

So you gave him what he wanted. You thrust into him at a steady rhythm, feeling hot and weak and barely lucid in your own body. This is when you would always reach for your camera. You wouldn’t even bother with the viewfinder, just hold it above him and click the shutter at what felt like appropriate angles, too drunk on desperation and pleasure to think hard about what you were doing. These photographs would be authentic. They would encapsulate just how far gone you were in your love for Yoosung Kim.

“Look,” you said, holding the camera at your eye level and pointing it toward him.

“Hhn... huh...?” He blinked lazily, bringing his half-lidded gaze up toward your face. You snapped the picture, then tossed the camera down against your bed and leaned forward, folding him over and thrusting into him faster.

“ _Ohhh_ , fuck,” he moaned low in his throat.

Yoosung dug his nails into your back, clawing at any patch of skin he could get his fingers around. He looped his ankles around your torso and hugged tight. It hurt, and it restricted your movements, but it also made you feel so incredibly close to him, so needed. “V,” he whimpered, quivering and unashamed of his own voice. “V, V, V, V,” and he continued until, tired and at your edge, you reached down and took hold of his cock, stroking it only a few times before his cum was spilling down your hands and onto his stomach. You felt, for a moment, a surge of intense bliss, a physical wave of release that rushed your body and left you trembling. You pulled out and looked into Yoosung’s eyes. You believed they were filled with love.

He would let you hold him afterwards, and you’d bury your face in the back of his neck, praying that you could keep him with you. You wouldn’t do just anything to make him stay, but you would do almost anything. You prayed it would be enough. Now these photos are all you have left.

 

 

You turn the page once more.

The next spread is a chaser of sorts. There is a single image, all warm orange light and dark purple silhouettes. In the foreground there is Yoosung, turned away from the camera but recognizable but the softness of his profile, the messy wisps of his hair. He is seated beside you in a train, gazing out the window at a vast countryside that blazes with streaks of sunset color.

His face in this photo is so peaceful.

When you snapped the photo, he turned, his calm mood making way for something more complicated, more troubled.

“What ever happened to _smile for the camera_?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You could give me a warning sometimes.”

You smiled, removing the lens to pack your camera away for the rest of the trip. “They’re candids. Poses are nice, too, but there’s something special about capturing someone on film when they’re not anticipating it.”

Yoosung leaned his head on your shoulder, watching you tuck away the camera in its pouch, then zip up the top of your bag. “Do I look different when I’m not posing?”

“Very.”

“How?”

You considered it for a moment. There were things you could say here that would get you in trouble, but you thought you could navigate around them. “You seem less stiff, like you’re not trying so hard to look a certain way. Instead you’re just... you.”

He exhaled slowly. “Just me, huh?” It sounded like he was dozing off.

“Wonderful you.”

Yoosung stiffened microscopically at your side, and then sat up so he was no longer leaning against you. You glanced over cautiously, searching his face, but he didn’t seem upset. He pushed his hair away from his eyes. “What do you do with all of the pictures you take of me?”

“Nothing yet,” you admitted. “I want to put them all in an album.”

“An album? Will you show anyone?”

You shook your head. “It’ll be for my personal collection.”

He was silent for a long time, as though weighing that over. You saw him readjust and face you more fully. “V,” he said. “What’ll be the point if soon you can’t even look at it?”

You held still. Your fingers were still gently wrapped around the sides of your camera pouch. Your gaze unfocused, you stayed in your head, thinking of how to navigate this conversation without another fight. “I’ll give it to you after that.”

“What do I want with a bunch of pictures of myself?”

“They’re photos that I took. It’ll be like seeing yourself through my eyes.”

“I want _you_ to see me through your eyes.” You felt his fingers gently against your jaw, turning your face toward him. Yoosung was backlit by the golden light streaming in through the window, so all you could make out was a dark purple figure, and those wisps of hair. He brushed those fingers along the curve of your jaw. So tender, so gentle, in moments like these. His voice was almost a whisper. “V. Please.”

Of course you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

 

 

You turn back the page, stare at the blurry nude photos again. You decide that you don’t want to look at the other pictures anymore—you want to fixate on these. There’s a reason that you included so many. In creating this album, you couldn’t force yourself to pick only a few of these dozens of photos you managed to document.

Your album contains peaceful or content images of Yoosung, in your candids. It has mildly tense photos, when he’s aware of the camera. But these are the only photos where he looks truly happy about _you_. You look closely at each one with a pain in your heart, a kind of longing. You wish you could go back to those moments. You wish he could ever trust you like that again.

You don’t remember much about the morning when it happened, just that it felt normal. Most days you would leave on the TV when getting ready, listen to the news as you moved around the house. It was a cruel coincidence that you’d left the television off that day. The silence of your apartment was broken instead by your cell phone’s ring. Jumin was the first to call.

“Please tell me that you didn’t know anything about this.”

You held the phone to your ear, slack-jawed, suddenly light-headed as though your blood was slipping down your veins toward your feet. From that sentence alone, and the unusual quaking of his voice, you knew what this was about. Still, you feigned innocence, as if to spare yourself the consequences just a moment longer. “About what, Jumin?”

“Forty three people,” he said. “Forty three people, most apparently on some amount of psychiatric drugs. At least four members under the age of eighteen. In operation for a year and a half or _longer_.” He was listing off figures, the only ones they’d released so far on the news. You knew he couldn’t bring himself, yet, to voice their greater meaning.

“I- I’m sorry, it's-”

He hung up.

The phone slid out of your grasp. It bounced off of your collarbone, hard enough to sting, then dropped to the floor with a clatter. You wondered whether the phone was broken. Trembling and breathing heavy, you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

Everything would be different after this, wouldn’t it? You wondered whether you could stay in this apartment. There were more dire things to consider, but your mind kept getting caught up that first step.

You didn’t realize you weren’t moving until the phone rang once again. Maybe five minutes later, maybe an hour. You looked to your feet and reached down for that glowing light blue rectangle, hitting the Talk button and bringing it to your ear.

Yoosung was smarter than Jumin, or perhaps just more cynical. “You knew, didn’t you?” It was incredible just how vicious he sounded even while sobbing openly.

You swallowed hard, shutting your eyes and observing how the words struck you like well-deserved knives. “I can explain,” you started.

“ _No_ , V. Y- you _could_ explain. You c-could’ve e... explained three _months_ ago. You could.... You could’ve explained t- t- two _years ago_. You don’t _get to_ explain now.”

You listened, and then you nodded. “I understand.”

“I can’t b- believe I ever let you t... touch me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Never_ sp- speak to me again.” And then he was gone, too.

 

 

But the photographs, you remember. The photographs. You still have these.

You glance at the photo you took after putting the camera in front of your face and urging Yoosung to look up. You try to make out his expression, but there’s no detail in it.

You have albums full of Rika. You have albums full of Jumin. You have folders on your computer of RFA parties and snapshots of every host. But again, this is the last album you ever want to look at. If Rika was your sun, then Yoosung was a star to wish on, an opportunity placed in your lap. You could have looked at him and wished for forgiveness, for understanding, for acceptance. Had you only given him what he wanted, you could have set everything right. Instead, you were selfish. You wished only for his love and his smile like sunlight.

You close the album and you close your eyes. You run a hand down the soft vinyl surface of the book, trying to think the pictures you just viewed and hold the feeling of them in your heart.

Now, you wonder whether reviewing these photos is counterproductive. If your vision has grown slightly worse by each viewing, perhaps you’re only rewriting your memories, gradually replacing the images in your mind with darker, blurrier versions, even further from their crisp reality.

With each of these viewings, you may deny yourself one fragment more of Yoosung Kim’s sweet memory.

If this is the case, then surely you deserve it.


End file.
